fata morgana

Life moves apace, the paucity of stories is inexplicable. Each day is a new experience; the same old degenerate and consumed world is presented anew but always unfolding uniquely.

In a sense, I have ceased to be myself – temporarily. I am working on this small essay. It is nothing extraordinary and I seem at a loss to make the most mundane, this time around, seem fantastic.

“I can’t imagine you being afflicted by the mundane. It is impossible for me to think of you as being forced to shave, to brush your teeth. You are above all quotidian aspect.”

And this is what I must accomplish, to recast myself as a being chock-full of flaws but ultimately learning a thing or two, never more for then I’d be perfect; I might as well kill myself upon achieving divinity. Life after such a stage is worthless. Fortunately, we resolve one predicament only to produce a new one. Life is one massive absurd comedy, so vast that when one actor dies, after some mandatory expressions of grief, we go on. We have to; it is not selfishness, it is necessity: it is reality.

But when we cry for the deceased, in all honesty, we cry for ourselves, fully cognizant of our mortality. “How dare he remind us of it by dying? Could he, honestly, have dragged himself off to some hidden and dark place and perished htere?” This may seem selfish, this transient moment of suffering, of grieving for the self. But it is not selfish, it is natural; to natural things such qualifiers cannot truly be applied:

Nature is neither wicked nor good; it simply is.

Now, à propos the essay. Not only am I confounded by my sudden inability to perform this magick trick, an illusion, I am also unable to focus on it entirely. With such ease I find myself writing about this particular predicament; if only I could have a similar experience during those moments when I attempt to write the essay.

Yet, I find comfort in knowing that nothing that is of any worth must come freely or without pain. Though I suspect I only tell myself this so as to mitigate my distress. After all, there is not much we can do to placate the aspect of nature – that beast that soon shall be proved to be altogether, something different. She shall be redefined.

Success is not truly necessary. I have found truth, i.e., a truth. Truth does not exist, only small truths and their duration is of such brevity that they dissolve in the stream of time. How many remember flageston?

Ah! it feels good to be able to write again, if just for a brief moment. Now, as for that essay….